


influence / mumrikology

by orphan_account



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Headcanons!, Mumriks, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Snusmumriken | Snufkin Has Paws and a Tail, dont be fooled this fic is about snufkin, hibernation, joxter is an ok-ish dad, joxter may show up eventually, moomin being absolutely obsessed with snufkin, more chapters on their way, mymbles, snufkin being a cause for concern, things dont go according to plan for anyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25053703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: it’s a bit of a backwards year in moominvalley.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. moomintroll and the 57th dilemma

a clock ticking at the heart of moominvalley dictates the lives of all things; it governs every action, every minute of every day. time forever _passes_ , and all creatures trust it stays true to that end— even as they slumber too deeply to know its integrity.

moomin finds his own reasons to doubt. every interrupted hibernation leads him closer to believing the world only moves while he sees it, pausing through blinks, freezing entirely with the winter cold. no matter how long he thinks he's slept, the snow always seems to have _just_ fallen over moominvalley when he wakes up.

the frost bites at his paws as moomin presses them to his window, prompting a grimace of displeasure and a sigh. no more than a month could have passed since hibernation began, he assumes. he already can feel the gnawing boredom that comes with spending the majority of winter to his own devices.

snow hardly entertains him. skiing and skating can only be fun for so long, and ice fishing with too-ticky requires a level of resilience he doesn't care to build. he could keep her company at the bathhouse where it's warm instead, but he figures she is quite busy— a visit every now and then is the most he can dare to impose.

she's much like snufkin, in some sense. isolation hardly bothers the two in the way it bothers moomin. the realization brings about a strange melancholy as he stares into the bleak expanse beyond his window.

‘ _where is snufkin, i wonder? what's he doing? is he alone right now, too?'_

his stomach growling interrupts the train of thought, and he quickly turns to skip down the stairs; a pre-stocked kitchen would greet him at the bottom, thankfully, as his mother knows of this odd propensity for waking when he shouldn't.

moomin sticks a spoon upright in a half-empty jar of jam.

he’s been zoned out at the dining table for a long while; a particular spot in the corner makes itself seem very intriguing, though it's only a matter of his fatigue overcoming him. soon, another nagging thought intrudes on his daze.

"oh," he murmurs, eyes flitting back to the stairs. "i should check if anyone else is awake, shouldn't i? maybe little my's up again, i'm sure then we could find something fun to do!"

the jam stays right where he leaves it as he rushes up to her room, and then to his parents' room. dishearteningly, he finds everyone fast asleep.

leaning back against his bedroom door, moomin huffs with frustration. he feels he can't stay prisoner in his own home, but he can't exactly wake his family either— he tried, to no avail.

"why in the world does this keep _happening_ to me? i bet everyone else is having the best sleep of their lives right now, it's not fair," he whines. "i wish winter would just go away already."

but of course, it doesn't. for a week, moomin does little else but check in on the others; he even ventures out to check on snorkmaiden and sniff a time or two, culminating in more disappointment than it’s worth. even his visits to too-ticky are all bittersweet between her well meaning words of sympathy and his utter resentment at being awake.

_‘if this is how that old groke gets by every winter, i’m not sure i won’t want to give her a great big bouquet of flowers once this is all over with,’_ moomin reflects one night, staring up at the ceiling.

it’s only after that particular thought occurs to him that he sits up in his bed, stricken with what he considers an enlightened idea— he doesn’t have to wait for winter to be over with at all; he’ll head south, just as snufkin does, and return again when things aren’t quite so monotonous.

“gosh, i could have left so much sooner! i’m sure mamma and pappa will understand, i’ll leave them a note— and i’ll have to pack all my stuff, first ... ”

moomin rambles to himself in his rush to gather the essentials, caught thoroughly surprised when not everything he owns fits into one bag. _'alright then, i suppose i can leave the third blanket behind.’_

despite his rationale, he can’t help but wonder what path his traveling friend took. if he followed in snufkin’s footsteps, he’d surely get away from moominvalley faster; if he’s lucky, he supposes they might even meet on their southbound journey.

_‘but that would be a bad thing,’_ moomin dutifully reminds himself.

_‘even if i don’t like it.’_

and eventually, with the note left for his parents and his bag slung over his shoulder, moomin leaves.


	2. sleep paralysis

no one really knows what makes snufkin tick; whether it’s the tides or the turning of seasons, even he can’t be entirely sure. he only knows that there’s _something_ guiding him forward, something he doesn’t always appreciate— and that wherever it leads him, he must follow.

leaving moominvalley is never fun, but it is routine; come winter, snufkin would often rather stay to enjoy the company of his own thoughts for a while longer. he leaves each time as if he’s hurried along by some unseen force, and though he makes it out to be a simple fact of life, he’s increasingly aware of how avoidant that is.

_why_ does he have to leave? it’s in his nature, yes, but what exactly does it mean? is it also a simple fact of life that returning to the valley gets harder every year, or that he’s compelled to leave sooner each time? must he one day acknowledge that a growing part of him resents this annual compromise— resents the claim of home _entirely?_

snufkin supposes the musing is counterproductive, now that he’s already gone. he can only keep his promise to moomin if he stifles these thoughts.

the path he’s traveling winds along the coast of a rocky isthmus, a bay to one side of him and a mountainous expanse to the other. the sand under his boots is cold, the nearby water frigid.

he still has a long way until he reaches any pleasant weather, but a dull ache in his feet finally prompts him to stop for the night. clear skies and solitude permit him to skip the tedium of setting up shelter, an outcropping of stone instead offering a place for him to rest.

snufkin lights a small fire, slipping off his gloves and boots to get comfortable— and though he fully intends to proceed with a song and a warm meal, he finds himself unconscious before it’s possible.

the next morning arrives with a splitting headache and creeping fatigue. claws scrape into the sand as he scrambles to sit up, a groan of aggravation echoing off the rock wall. the fire has long since died out, leaving nothing for him but a disorienting numbness in his extremities. distraction from the pain, at least.

he turns his gaze to the shore, noting the sun’s position already being a bit too high for his liking. unwilling to linger, he scatters the remnants of his camp and trudges on with the journey.

on the fourth day of waking in fits, he reaches the conclusion that something might be wrong. the headaches subside by noon, yet never fully, not to mention how his pace has slowed to a near crawl.

_‘i wonder if i may have gotten myself sick.’_

it’s the only explanation he can think of. even so, he hardly feels sick in any way he’s used to. his body just isn’t cooperating for some reason or another.

_‘so long as my breathing is fine, i can’t let this hinder me too much.’_

snufkin knows how to take care of himself well enough to catch whatever warning he might get; another week passes that he presses forward, nothing seeming out of sorts by his standards other than the headaches and lethargy.

_‘... allergies, then. incredibly strange allergies.’_

he manages to convince himself of this for some time, giving thought to it only during the worst of his bouts— until one evening eventually comes around that forces him to fully reconsider.

it’s quiet. the still air grants a welcome illusion of warmth, snufkin having found a secure tree to sleep in this time. he sighs, arms crossed over his chest, letting his tail sway idly below as he drifts off.

he’s not sure when, but at some point he notices the comfort of it all. no thoughts to push away. no headache to speak of for the first time since it started. even the false warmth suddenly seems too good to be true, and in a moment of skepticism, he tries to open his eyes.

he can’t.

snufkin holds his breath, turning fruitless attention towards moving his hands. the only reaction his body gives him is a hyperawareness of his slowing heartbeat, far too loud compared to the once-pleasant silence.

he can no longer decipher which sensations are fabricated, the most overwhelming being utter exhaustion followed by an urge to let it happen. being paralyzed, there’s little else he can do.

_‘this is certainly the most... relaxing panic attack i’ve ever had. it could just be a dream,’_ he reasons.

alas, fate won’t have it. the world responds in a resounding _‘no’_ — punctuated, of course, by snufkin’s prompt collision with the ground.


End file.
